


Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy?

by Northern_Star



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Big Bang Challenge, Community: rpf_big_bang, Dubious Consent, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Star/pseuds/Northern_Star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life Carey Price had dreamt of being a hockey player, and making it in to NHL, but when an accident cuts short what would have been a very promising career, he turns to the one thing he still knows how to do and gets some enjoyment from - the rodeo. That is, until one day he runs into Milan Lucic who convinces him that he shouldn't have given up, and will push him relentlessly, never letting him give up on his dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy?

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to art post.](http://madebymarienne.livejournal.com/10390.html)

***

Carey Price had worked all of his young life for this very moment. Every minute spent on the ice, every hour of training, every little ounce of energy and will he'd ever put into a hockey game, just so he could sit here today in Ottawa and get himself drafted by an NHL team.

For years this had been all he'd ever talked about, all he'd worked so hard for, and at this very moment, it was the one thing in life he wanted the most. Because being drafted meant you were part of a team—an _NHL_ team—and that one day you'd play for this team, in a huge arena, in front of thousands of fans; that was the day you really became a professional hockey player. And _that_ was what Carey had dreamt about ever since he'd been old enough to lace up his own skates.

He was the top rated North American goaltender that year, and though goalies didn't often end up drafted in the top ten, according to pretty much everyone there, _this goalie_ was kind of a big deal, and so Carey had high hopes of being drafted early.

It came as no surprise whatsoever to see Sidney Crosby get drafted first, of course. For months now, everyone had referred to this year's entry draft as the "Sidney Crosby Lottery." But if that was an inevitability, it was a little harder to predict which team would pick whom next, and every time a team got up to the podium to make their selection, Carey sat a little more nervously in his little corner of the huge arena.

The Mighty Ducks, the Hurricanes, and the Minnesota Wild came and went, making their picks, none of whom happened to be Price. With every single uttering of the words " _are proud to select_ ," Carey had closed his eyes, hoping it might be him, then opened them again when it had turned out not to be, and tried to convince himself that maybe he would have been unhappy playing there anyway, and that it was all just because a better team would claim him. Bullshit, of course, as he would have happily played absolutely anywhere at all, and he knew as well as anyone that a team could always be made into a great one, especially at the draft; this was simply his way of getting over the sharp pang of disappointment that came every single time it hadn't been him that was picked.

Then came the Canadiens, with the fifth selection. While General Manager Bob Gainey addressed the crowd in what had to be highly accented French, Carey'fs mom looked over to her son and nodded, smiling, as if she knew something no one else did—or maybe felt something in the air, who knew?

Carey held his breath as the words came again, " _are proud to select_." By the time they'd been followed by " _from the Tri-City Americans_ ," Carey's heart was beating wildly in his chest. He knew there was no one else this could possibly be but himself. His turn had come; he was who they were drafting.

Fifth over all. _This_ was what all his hard work had amounted to, and as he walked up to the podium—floated, almost—he knew that every effort he'd ever put into his young career so far had been very much worth it. Carey could not possibly have been happier with the outcome. It was a dream come true.

In two or three year's time—maybe sooner if he worked hard enough, he thought—Carey would be the starting goaltender for the franchise with the richest history of excellence in the NHL; a team for which some of the very best netminders of all times had played.

And maybe, one day, if he worked hard enough for it, he'd have his name engraved on the Stanley Cup, just like them.

***

It was a warm July day in British Columbia, and Carey was still riding high after the Hamilton Bulldog's conquest of the Calder Cup, a little less than a month before. It had been a whirlwind of a year: signing his first real professional contract, then going from his junior team at the end of the season straight to the Bulldogs for their playoff run, and ending it not only with the Calder Trophy, but the playoff MVP award as well. It had been a very long season of literally nothing but eating, sleeping and _breathing_ hockey, but it had paid off. _Big time_.

Carey had just had the best season, and the absolute best year of his life, and as he mounted his horse that afternoon, ready to take part in his first real rodeo of the season, he felt not only like he was on top of the world, but that he was invincible. No one, and nothing could possibly bring him down.

He hadn't been competing in rodeos for very long yet, only a couple of years. At first, it had simply been something to do during the summer, to clear his mind of hockey during the off season, so he could come back well rested and ready in the fall. Something to help him disconnect.

Considering the fact that he _did_ have hockey to go back to, Carey had picked to train and compete in team roping events, as this had—statistically speaking—the least chances of getting him injured. While he loved riding and was really good at it, there was no way he'd ever want to endanger himself riding broncs bareback, or worse yet, bulls—not that there was any way the organization he belonged to would ever willingly allow their rising star goalie to compete in such extreme sports in the first place. Team roping had the clear advantage, being relatively safe as well as feeling comfortable to him.

The signal came for his team and they entered the closed area, nodding at one another to signal that they were ready and knew exactly what they had to do. With their steer loose and the barrier released, they set out in pursuit of their prey.

Something happened then that shouldn't have, and even though Carey's horse headed into the arena, it didn't do so as obediently as it should have. For some reason, there seemed to be something there that it didn't like, or agree with. The horse took a step forward, then stopped. Carey tried to get it to go on, but the animal refused, bucking, wildly and violently. Carey held on with all strength, trying to control his horse somehow, but the horse was stronger, bucking so wildly it threw its rider off several feet into the air before help could manage to reach them. Carey landed on the dusty ground, blinding pain shooting up from his left leg. He was only faintly aware of the loud gasps and exclamations coming from everywhere around him before everything went black.

When he opened his eyes again, disoriented and feeling groggy, the first thing he saw was a white ceiling and white walls, and then he saw the tubes hooked up to his arm. Everything felt strange and wrong, and he tried to talk, but his brain didn't seem able to get his mouth to form the words. His leg throbbed with dull pain, and a wave of nausea swept over him as he suddenly remembered how he'd gotten here. He closed his eyes again, too weak to fight against what he guessed had to be massive doses of painkillers, and dreamt of skating on the ice of the Bell Centre next season.

After Carey woke up again, and his head had stopped feeling so disconnected from his body, a doctor came and explained how they'd repaired the broken bones in his leg. He'd called it a compound oblique fracture of the tibia, which to Carey really only meant it was _bad_ though he already knew as much, being that it had hurt like hell at the time. He laughed upon being told he now had a Titanium rod and screws to hold the damaged bone together, wondering if that meant he was on his way to becoming a cyborg or something straight out of some awful late-night science-fiction movie. When Carey asked when he'd be able to play hockey again, the only real answer he got at the time was a watery smile from his mother.

Months of recovery later, while a new hockey season was already underway, Carey was still in B.C., learning how to _walk_ again. It wasn't until after a second round of surgery, more recovery time and enough visits with a physical therapist to drive him borderline insane, that it finally began to sink in for Carey that he wasn't going to be playing hockey again any time soon, if ever.

So he began looking for something else to do. Something that didn't involve skating or running, or even standing up for extended periods of time, because as much as he wanted to, he simply couldn't physically achieve it at all. Not without having to endure so much pain it became absolutely unbearable.

And while he never really drowned himself in pools of hard liquor, there were days where he would drink himself into a stupor just for the sake of forgetting everything and feeling somewhere akin to normal again. Just so when he closed his eyes and dreamt about lacing up his skates and gliding over the freshly made ice of the arena, it felt like it was real and just within reach, instead of hurting so damn much at the mere thought that it would make him want to scream.

***

Three years spent around the rodeo circuit full time and Carey now had a decent collection of awards sitting on the bookcase in the den, in lieu of his old hockey trophies and trinkets. After the accident, when he'd finally admitted to himself that there would be no illustrious NHL career, and that his name would never be added to the list of men who'd tended goals for the Canadiens, nor would it ever be engraved on the Stanley Cup, he'd tossed all his hockey trophies, medals, and every last piece of memorabilia that he'd found in the house, into a big mover's box which had been securely put into storage. He'd never opened it up again—that part of his life was over, done with, and he would never go back to it again.

With the award he'd snatched at the annual stampede in Williams Lake, every shelf of the big, old oak bookcase was now decorated with certificates, ribbons and belt buckles of all shapes and sizes. The latest belt buckle he'd been awarded had made it up there after having been properly baptized as he'd celebrated his win the same way he'd done with all the others, and as he'd placed it there on the top shelf, he'd realized just how well he'd done for himself, all things considered.

Three years, and not only had he managed to pretty much erase, if not really forget, every last trace of the hockey career he'd had, but he'd also won more awards that he might ever have as a professional NHLer. Sure it wasn't the same thing, but in the end, he earned a pretty good living doing something he enjoyed; and if the buckle bunnies were anything to base assumptions on, he had a pretty darn big fan following for a small-town cowboy. Most importantly, though, this was something that he could do without any pain and, hence, constant reminders of the accident.

The rodeo was his life now, and all in all, it was a pretty good life to lead. Carey barely even regretted any moment of his former, hockey player existence...

...or so he tried very hard to convince himself, every single day. And when that didn't work, well, there was nothing a few more beers couldn't fix, of course.

***

Carey was sitting at the bar of a random little hole-in-the-wall place on the outskirts of Vancouver that night, his cowboy hat pulled down low, hiding his eyes. He was quietly nursing his beer, happily enjoying his anonymity and the comforting sounds of whatever country song the jukebox chose to cue up. He had nowhere to be tonight, and nothing better to do than this. Besides, hiding out in unknown bars, where no one would know to find him, getting slowly drunk right past the point where he still had regrets, was what Carey always did every year on the anniversary of the day that had given him reasons to have plenty.

He would usually disappear a day or so before, then reappear out of nowhere a few days later, having dropped off the face of the earth in between as far as anyone who knew him could tell. He turned his cell phone off, and avoided turning up anywhere that he knew friends or relatives might be found at the time. And he most certainly never told them where he'd been or what he'd done, though he figured that his mother could probably guess anyway. Mostly though, while he did drink himself right under the table every year on this date, it was really so he could avoid people that he disappeared, as someone would inevitably find a way to remind him of the accident then, and he really _was_ trying to forget about it. Beer, of course, always helped a lot.

So, here he was, in a place he'd driven by and stopped in completely at random, starting to feel the beginnings of a pleasant alcohol buzz, when he noticed something of a commotion going on near the entrance of the establishment. He frowned in mild curiosity. There was a group there, standing near a window, all of them looking out and seemingly very excited about _something_.

The excitement died down abruptly as a man walked into the bar. Tall, with broad shoulders and arms that had to have seen their fair share of weights to grow that big. There was something about him that seemed oddly familiar, but that Carey couldn't immediately place. However, when a group of girls started giggling and surrounded the man like a swarm, he figured that it was likely that the guy was some sort of local celebrity. Which, obviously, explained what the commotion had been about.

With the mystery solved, Carey turned back to his beer and took a long swig from his bottle, putting everything out of mind. As long as no one paid any real attention to him, he really didn't care if God himself walked into this bar tonight. Carey had no plans of moving off this barstool until he was forced to, or carried out of the place, which wasn't all that unlikely an outcome, considering.

A man came and sat down heavily on the vacant barstool on Carey's right-hand side and ordered a beer. Then, for some reason, he turned to Carey and, in a tone that sounded annoyingly pleasant, said, "Hot out there tonight, isn't it?"

"Ought to be," Carey replied with a shrug, "It's summer."

The man laughed. "Wonderful, isn't it?"

Raising an eyebrow, Carey looked over to him. It was the same man who'd caused something of a stir a few minutes ago. Carey opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but closed it right back again, having suddenly recognized him, and for a moment Carey simply stared at the man sitting next to him.

Of all the people who could possibly have walked into _this_ bar and opted to sit there, the universe had somehow seen fit to play some sort of awful, cruel joke at Carey's expense and sent, not only a hockey player, but of all people, Milan Lucic, local boy turned Stanley Cup champion. It was almost surprising that the patrons in the bar hadn't chased him away actually, being that his Boston Bruins had beaten the Canucks in order to earn themselves the Cup. Then again, perhaps this was why he'd walked into this bar in the first place—it was far enough from downtown Vancouver; and clearly he had fans here, anyway.

"Yeah, if you say so," Carey finally replied.

Sighing, he grabbed his bottle off the bar and slid off the barstool he'd sworn he wasn't going to get up from, then looked around for somewhere else to sit. Anywhere that wouldn't put him near this guy. The last thing he wanted to think about tonight was hockey, and hell if he was going to spend any part of the evening having a conversation with a guy who'd undoubtedly rub in the fact that he had his name engraved on the one trophy Carey Price no longer had any hopes of ever earning. Not that he was bitter or anything, because he really wasn't, but it was better for his sanity to keep the hell away from this guy. Definitely.

"Aw, sorry," said Lucic, "Didn't mean to chase you away from your spot, buddy."

"No harm done," Carey told him, shrugging as he looked in his direction again. His mind, however, was screaming that he wasn't his _buddy_ and that the guy had no right coming here and spoil his evening. So he'd been throwing himself a pity party... That really didn't mean that anyone was welcome to crash it. Especially someone with a Stanley Cup ring!

"Hey, wait," Lucic called as Carey headed away, "don't I know you?"

Carey closed his eyes and stopped mid-motion. Could his luck get any worse tonight, he wondered? Sighing, he shook his head, and over his shoulder replied, "Doubt it, I don't hang around hockey players much."

Lucic got up suddenly, almost as quickly as if he'd just been ejected from his seat. "No, wait," he said, stepping in Carey's path. "I do know you, don't I?"

"What difference could that possibly make?"

Ignoring Carey's remark, Lucic cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing. "Aren't you that guy...?" he began, hesitating as if he'd been trying to piece things together as he spoke. "That goalie... Dammit, I forget. The one who got drafted real high, same year as Crosby, then had an accident and—"

"Nope," said Carey rudely as he attempted to walk past the "obstacle" in his way.

"Price, isn't it?" said Lucic. "I recognize you, man. We played against each other in juniors. That _is_ you, isn't it?"

Carey sighed in frustration. "No," he insisted. "That's who I _used to be_. I'm someone else now, all right?"

Lucic frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Once up on a time I was a goaltender, and then yada, yada, yada, life happened, so I've been competing in rodeos the last three years," said Carey, eyes growing a little wide as he willed Lucic to get a clue. "That's what it means. I'm doing something else now. The end."

"Really?" Lucic replied, frowning a little more. "I mean, I heard you'd had a nasty accident, hell, it was all over the news that summer, but—" he looked Carey up and down "—you look like you're in pretty good shape now, and you're still young enough. Didn't you ever want to give it another shot? I can't imagine there isn't a way for you to try and make a comeback."

"Look, Lucic, thanks for your expert advice, but if I'd wanted it, I would have asked," Carey told him, anger bubbling up inside him. "Hockey is ancient history and that's all it's ever going to be for me, so congratulations on winning the Cup, and now if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you left me the hell alone."

"Don't you miss it?" Lucic asked him. His voice was gentle, but there was something in his tone that seemed to say that he couldn't believe anyone would ever willingly quit the game without putting up a fight.

"I can't miss what I never had, can I?" Carey said bluntly. "Look, seriously, I'm doing something else with my life now, and I'm perfectly happy with that, thank you very much." He walked past Lucic, bumping roughly into his shoulder, then pulled up an empty chair and dropped heavily into it, all but slamming his beer bottle on the table.

"Well you sure don't sound very happy to me," Lucic shot in his direction before walking away.

Carey finished his beer, mumbling to himself about bad karma and how the universe had a really bad sense of humor. He had several more beers after that; one of those in celebration of the fact that Lucic had left the bar, then a couple in an attempt to forget the man had ever been there in the first place, and many more still, until words like "rebound" and "butterfly" had lost all their meaning.

***

Another rodeo weekend over, and Carey was getting ready to go home again. The end result hadn't necessarily been what he had hoped for—a third-place finish—but it had been a pleasant weekend, and overall he was pleased with his performance. He was lazily pulling his horse along, heading back to his truck and trailer, when he heard someone behind him.

"So, this is what you're doing with your life now, huh?"

Carey stopped, teeth clenching in annoyance as he'd instantly recognized the voice. He turned slowly and, looking daggers at Lucic, said, "Did you come all the way here just to look down your nose at me?"

"No, I was visiting a friend who lives around here," Lucic replied. "Nice horse you've got there," he added, patting the animal on its flank.

"What exactly are you doing here, Lucic?"

"Just thought I'd drop by and say hello, see what you've been up to," said Lucic with a small shrug.

"What business is it of yours what I'm up to? Or did you miss the part where you were supposed to leave me the hell alone?"

"Whoa, relax," said Lucic, hands up in surrender, "I just wanted to say hi."

"And what _I_ want—" Carey began, but his horse started tugging on its reins, so he tightened his grip a little and tried to calm the animal down, running his free hand down its mane gently. He looked back to Lucic a moment later and said, "What _I_ want is for you to leave me alone. I don't need you rubbing your Stanley Cup ring in my face."

"Aw, c'mon! I never once did that," said Lucic. Then in a teasing tone added, "How could I, anyway, being as I don't even _have_ it yet."

"Same difference," Carey muttered under his breath.. "Why are you really here, Lucic? Because, sure, you _could_ have a friend living around here, but clearly you showed up _here_ , at the Stampede, for a reason. And don't try to feed me any of that _'I just wanted to say hi'_ bullshit, because I'm not buying it. We're not friends."

"I'm just curious, all right?" Lucic replied. "For the life of me, I can't understand why you haven't tried to make a comeback. Is there any reason why you couldn't still play pro? You're plenty young enough, and from what I remember you were pretty damn good."

Carey snorted at that. "Says a guy who scored a hat trick against me."

"You remember that?" Lucic asked, frowning in surprise. "I mean, obviously _I_ do, my first ever natural hat trick and all, but I wouldn't expect anyone else to recall something like that."

"Trust me, I _really_ wish I could forget all about it," Carey grumbled in response. "But see, the sad thing about being a goalie is you often remember the goals scored against you better than the saves you _did_ make." He shrugged. "Then again, who cares? That was a lifetime ago."

"Don't you miss it, though?" Lucic asked, eyes narrow, searching. "I mean... you had enough talent you were drafted fifth overall, so clearly you were meant for something greater than—" he made a circular motion at their surroundings "—this. Don't you miss any of it?"

Carey's shoulder slumped as he let out a defeated sigh, his head dropping. "Yes," he grudgingly admitted in a broken voice. "Yes, I miss it, okay? I miss it so bad it hurts more than my leg probably ever has. Is that what you wanted to hear?" He looked at Lucic pleadingly. "Now will you please, _please_ leave me alone?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I just think that—"

"I _know_ what you think, Lucic," Carey cut in, self-pity giving way to frustration again. "But I think otherwise, and my leg generally agrees with that point of view. There's only so many months of being in pain so bad you can't fucking stand up long enough to pee that someone can endure before giving up."

"Clearly you haven't been having many of those lately, judging from the way you hopped off your horse, a few minutes ago," Lucic replied, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"So I gave up trying, what's it to you, huh?" Carey sighed. "It's a moot point anyway. I'm too old now to start all over again."

"Old?" Lucic snorted. "We're the same age! In what universe is that too old? A lot of guys don't even break into the league before they're older than that!"

" _Maybe_. Except they didn't stop playing for four years, did they?"

"Fine, fine," said Lucic, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. "Look, when you decide you're done feeling sorry for yourself, why don't you come train with me in Vancouver?"

"Right, so basically you came here looking for some sort of project to occupy the rest of your summer with, is that it?" Carey asked, laughing humorlessly. "You want to try and, I dunno, _magically_ turn a poor little cowboy into a hockey player again?"

"No, I just think you deserve a break, and I'd like to help you out if I can." Lucic pulled out a card on which was scribbled an address and he handed it to Carey. "I'm meeting with my trainer Tuesday morning at ten, you should come, find out what kind of shape you're in and all that."

"I can't afford a personal trainer or—"

"Who said anything about that?"

"I don't want any charity handouts," Carey protested.

"Come on, Price, don't be an idiot. You owe it to yourself to at least try," said Lucic. "Just show up, okay?" he added as he walked away.

"I probably won't," Carey shot over his shoulder.

"Suit yourself," Lucic shot back, shrugging.

Carey turned and watched him leave, unable to understand why exactly it was that Lucic wanted to help him in the first place. There was nothing in it for the guy—nothing at all. There was no good reason for him to even want to help—they weren't friends and had never been. They'd been adversaries once, which was the only link they even had at all.

Shaking his head in incomprehension, Carey turned his attention back to the horse that was starting to get a little bit restless, and he lead the animal over to the trailer.

"There has to be a catch, right?" he asked the horse as he tied its reins to the side of the trailer and removed the saddle from its back.

The horse shook its head, neighing.

"Oh, so you disagree, do you?" Carey laughed and went to place his saddle on its stand inside the trailer.

Coming out again, he ran a hand through the horse's mane. "I just don't know..."

He guided the horse into the trailer and secured it inside the stall. "What do you think, Dash? Think I should do this? Go to Vancouver?"

Dash looked at him and bobbed its head a few times, pawing the floor of the trailer.

"Really?" said Carey, chuckling. "What if I find I could play hockey again? Wouldn't you miss me if I left?"

The horse neighed softly, and Carey patted it on its neck before leaving the trailer.

"I must be completely out of my mind," he mumbled to himself as he climbed into his truck, "taking advice from a horse!"

Carey spent the entire ride back attempting to weigh the pros and the cons of an hypothetical trip to Vancouver, his head filling with more questions every time he added an item to either list.

What if what he found there wasn't what he hoped to find? What _did_ he hope to find, anyway?

Medically, he was fine—he'd known that for a while already—but being fine was a long way from being fit enough and strong enough to play, and he really had no idea if he would ever be again, or how far off he was. Wouldn't it be best if he were told that there was no way he could ever be physically fit enough to play at a professional level again? Because if so, then his decision to let it all go and do something else with his life would have been the right one. Or would that just crush him all over again like the first time when he was forced to say goodbye to all his hopes and dreams?

But on the other hand... what if he'd been wrong, and there was still a chance for him? He had wasted three years doing nothing already, and the road back would be made harder and steeper because of it, but what if it _were_ possible to make it back up there from here? Wasn't it worth at least finding out? Wasn't it worth it to give it a shot? One last try? Even if it was just so he could play a single NHL game, years from now—wouldn't it have been worth it in the end, if only so he could say that he had achieved that which he'd spent most of his life, prior to the accident, working for?

What if this was exactly what he'd been looking for in order to flip karma the bird once and for all?

***

When Carey showed up at the address he'd been given, a good fifteen minutes after ten—purposely keeping up the pretense that he wasn't going to show, for as long as possible—not only did he find that they'd been eagerly expecting him, but that Lucic had even given his trainer an " _everything you always wanted to know about Carey Price_ " introductory course; clearly he'd been Googling over the weekend or something. Carey didn't have much time in which to be annoyed by the fact that Lucic appeared to have been convinced all along that he would show up, as they put him to work almost immediately after he'd walked through the door.

After a long, arduous session, consisting of all sorts of exercises and tests meant to assess Carey's level of abilities and fitness, from which he emerged drained and in more pain than he cared to admit to, there was an equally long meeting to go over recommendations, and suggestions for possible training avenues. Carey scoffed during most of it, as if he didn't really care to be given any advice, or that he knew any better than they did.

"If you really work at it," the trainer told him, "I'm pretty sure within a year or so you'd be more than ready to play seriously again. You aren't that far from top shape, you just need to work to strengthen your leg, and some actual time on the ice to hone your skills and get back to where you used to be. If you're willing, I'm pretty sure we could get you back in shape and ready to try out for a team as early as 2012."

" _We_?"

"If that's what you want, of course," the trainer replied. "Just say the word and we can start as soon as you wish." With that, the man excused himself as he needed to attend to other matters.

"See," Lucic said, patting Carey on the shoulder, "I told you!"

"Fine, so you did tell me," Carey reluctantly agreed. "However, maybe you missed the part where I told you that hockey isn't what I want to do anymore."

Lucic laughed. "You showed up, didn't you?"

"Because you badgered me into it."

"Oh bullshit!" Lucic replied, laughing even harder. "You showed up because you wanted to know. Better yet, you showed up because you miss playing so bad that when I offered you something that might help you get back to it someday, you just couldn't help yourself. And you know what? I'm _glad_ you did, because you aren't really very convincing at the—" he made air quotes "— _I'm doing something really great with my life now._ No offense."

"At least I'm doing _something_ with my life," said Carey, offended.

"Yeah, sure, but... you could be doing _this_ instead," Lucic offered. "I mean, not that you aren't good at what you do, and I'm sure you do enjoy riding and roping and whatnot, but it's _so_ obvious that you resent the fact that life threw something at you that you weren't expecting and robbed you of this thing you really wanted."

Carey raised an eyebrow at him. "And how would _you_ know what it is that I really wanted or not?"

"Because," Lucic replied, insisting, "You were too good not to have put all your energy into hockey, and if you did that, it's because you had a very clear goal in mind. And you know what? That whole _'well, I'm sorry kid, but you'll never play hockey again'_ speech? I've been there, and I heard it too, and I know exactly what it's like to see your hopes and dreams come crashing down around you. But there comes a point where you have to pick yourself up and stop feeling sorry for yourself and fight again. Giving up is the _last_ thing someone should be doing when they were good enough to be drafted fifth overall in the first place."

"Yes, but—"

"No!" Lucic shot back immediately, "No 'buts'. You can have a second chance, right here, right now. Why can't you just take it?"

Carey shook his head. "Even if I wanted to, I can't _afford_ —" he gestured vaguely at the room "—all of this. I earn a living riding horses, and if I'm not riding, I can't win competitions and I don't get paid. My sponsors probably wouldn't care for me spending extended periods of time in Vancouver anyhow. I can't do this right now. I just can't."

"Oh for heaven's sake, would you stop being an idiot!" Lucic replied, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "You need the tools to be able to do this, and I'm _offering them_ to you. Just take them, and do this. Don't ask questions, just...do it."

"I'm not some charity case, Lucic," Carey protested. "I don't want handouts."

Lucic sighed. "That's not what this is," he explained, in a tone that was a lot less forceful. "I had people in my corner fighting for me when things got tough, and I realize we're not exactly best buddies or anything, but it seems to me like you could stand to have a few more people on your side. Let's just call this my way of paying it forward, and someday you can do the same for someone else."

"Why me, though? Why would you want to waste your time with a cowboy in the first place?"

"I'm not wasting it, quit putting yourself down like that," Lucic told him, shaking his head. "You're just a lot like me, that's all. Only better at tending goal, but that's not the point. You need a hand, and I have one to give, so why wouldn't I help you out?"

Carey gave him a dubious look, but having pretty much run out of arguments, he kept his mouth shut and simply shrugged, not really knowing what else to do. He didn't quite trust himself to speak anyhow, too proud to let himself accept, and half-afraid to lose what had been offered if he dared argue some more over it.

"Come on," said Lucic in a cheerful tone. "Let's get out of here and grab some food, all right? I'm starving."

"Wait, we're done?" Carey asked, a surprised expression on his face. "I thought you came here to train? All you did was look on and smirk while I was sweating half to death. I mean, surely the ten minutes I was in the shower weren't much of a workout for you."

"Workout was done hours ago when I got up this morning."

"So why were you meeting with your trainer, anyway?"

Lucic gave him a small, lopsided smile. "Just doing a friend a favor," he said. "Come on, food. I'm starving."

"You and me? Friends?" Carey chuckled. "I was going to play for the Habs, if you remember correctly. You and I would have been mortal enemies."

"But you didn't, and we aren't," said Lucic, clearly amused. "Which means there really isn't any reason why we shouldn't be friends. You'll see."

"Well, if you're buying lunch, I could probably be convinced..."

"I will if you agree to stay here and train with me until the end of August," Lucic said, a sly smile on his lips.

There was a long pause, at the end of which Carey finally replied, in a quiet, much more serious tone, "I'd be pretty stupid to pass up an opportunity like that, wouldn't I?"

"Probably," said Lucic amicably. "And see, none of my friends are stupid, so..."

"Right, okay."

"And actually, most of my friends just call me Looch. Or you could try using my first name. I do have one, you know."

Carey laughed. "One step at a time, Lucic," he said, insisting on his last name. "Now where's that food you promised me?"

They headed out of the gym together, and right into the small restaurant next door. Lunch was a quick and mostly quiet affair, as Carey spent just about the entire time trying to figure out how to break the news to his family, and worse, his sponsors, that he was cutting his rodeo season short in order to stay in the city and train for something he'd been trying to convince them for years that he no longer wanted.

Carey left for home the next day, still uncertain what to tell them. Normally, he wouldn't bother telling anyone what he'd been up to the last few days, but now... Even if he _didn't_ tell his family and friends where he'd been and what he'd done, there was no way he could avoid telling them he was moving to the city for the rest of the summer.

It took a few days before he managed to find the courage and the right words to explain this all to them, but with that out of the way at last, he arranged for a friend to come look after his horses, packed up a suitcase and found himself a place to stay in Vancouver, hoping with all his heart that this was the right decision.

***

The next weeks of Carey's life consisted of him sweating his ass off in the gym twice a day and being in way more pain than he'd ever thought training alone might ever cause him. The first few days, he'd needed plenty of ice and painkillers in order to get through. And, sure, maybe he'd had a few beers with those, but that was just because it helped him fall asleep quicker. Why deal with all this pain when he could pass out and sleep through it all, anyway?

Despite all of Carey's complaints that he'd had enough, that he couldn't go on any longer, and _could they please end this session early for once,_ there was no convincing anyone at all; every day Carey got pushed a little harder, and a little further, never being allowed to slow down, let alone quit. At the end of every session, he hobbled over to the showers, giving his self-appointed slave-drivers a dirty look.

By the middle of the third week, he'd heard Lucic tell him so many times to keep going and not give up that he could still hear the words when he closed his eyes at night. And every time Lucic told him, yet again, to try harder, it made Carey want to break the man's leg just so he'd understand that he really wasn't kidding when he complained of being in pain and that he needed to slow down and rest. But although he bitched and moaned about it continually, Carey never gave Lucic the satisfaction of seeing him quit. Besides, by that third week, Carey was doing a pretty good job of keeping up with his training partner, and as his body had adjusted to the daily exercising, post-training strain and leg pains had gradually lessened.

They were going to go out on the ice the following Monday, and though Carey tried his very best to keep the appearance that it really didn't matter that much to him—he wouldn't let himself admit the truth to anyone—he was really very excited at the prospect. The last time he'd stepped on the ice had been the day the Bulldogs had won the Calder Cup—he hadn't put on a pair of skates again since.

As he drove from the little studio apartment he'd rented, all the way to Lucic's place out on the East Side, Carey kept picturing the arena, the ice, and trying to remember what it felt like to skate; wondering if he would remember how, and worrying that he might not. His cell phone rang a couple of times, but seeing as though it was Lucic both times, and that Carey was a few minutes late—due to traffic this time, not pride—he didn't bother answering, knowing in advance that Lucic was simply calling to complain about him being late and wasting what little ice time they were supposed to have in the first place.

Lucic, however, wasn't waiting impatiently for him outside the house as Carey had expected. Odd, considering he always waited for him outside, and that he had to be a little annoyed by now at having waited a few extra minutes. Carey parked his truck in front of the house, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell. He waited a good few seconds, then rang again. Lucic's car was parked in the driveway, so Carey was convinced that he had to be there, even though for some reason he wasn't answering the door.

Confused, slightly concerned, even, Carey pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and was just about to start dialing when the door finally opened in front of him. "You're not ready?" he asked, frowning deeply at the sight of Lucic in nothing more than a pair of boxers and a clearly very old Bruins t-shirt.

"If you'd bothered answering your phone," Lucic replied with a sigh, "you would have _known_ that already."

"Answer? Why?" Carey said, shaking his head. "It's 7:30 in the morning, I knew it was you, and I'm late. Why would I even want to pick up when I know you're just going to bitch at me because I failed to show up on time?"

"Because I wasn't going to, and because if you had picked up, or even just listened to your _voicemail_ , then you would have known we're not going anywhere."

Carey blinked. "What?" he asked, his expression bordering on crestfallen. "What do you mean we're not going anywhere? We're supposed to go out skating this morning. You pestered me about it all day yesterday to make sure I wouldn't forget."

"Well, _you_ can go if you like," Lucic told him. "But you'll have to go without me. I pulled a muscle or something, I'm not sure. All I know is my back is stiff and I'm really not in any condition to skate right now."

"You're serious?"

"No, I'm pulling your leg," said Lucic, raising an eyebrow. "Of course I'm serious!"

"Wait, so...? You keep telling me I should work harder, and I shouldn't give up, and everyday you guys push me to the point where I'm so sore I want to scream and then you push me harder still, but when you're in a little bit of pain, suddenly we're not going anywhere?" Carey huffed in annoyance. "That's totally unfair. If I could push through the amount of pain I was in the first few days, then you can find a way to do the same. Get dressed."

Lucic eyed him wearily. "I thought you'd enjoy a day off. Aren't you the one who keeps bitching about wanting one? _Deserving_ one, I think you said, actually. You changed your mind, suddenly?"

"Look, we made a deal," Carey told him, arms crossed in front of his chest in a defiant manner. "I expect you to hold you end of it, the same way I've been holding mine."

"Fine, fine," said Lucic, sighing heavily. "We'll go, then."

He let Carey inside, then disappeared a little further into the house. It seemed obvious just by the way he walked that he was nowhere near in shape to go skating, and Carey started feeling a little sorry, if not downright guilty about insisting they should go anyway. Sure he'd felt pain, and yes sometimes he would hobble off a training apparatus, wincing and complaining, but there really hadn't been any time when he'd been completely incapacitated at all, whereas Lucic seemed to be exactly that right now.

When Lucic came back again, still limping heavily, Carey really started having second thoughts about this. Postponing until the next day wasn't such a huge deal, he figured. "Look," he began hesitantly, "maybe this is a bad idea, after all."

Lucic gave him a dirty look. "You wanted to go, we're going," he said. "Come on."

"Well, then maybe we can take it easy," Carey suggested. "Just for once. You know...if that's better for you?"

"Are you kidding?" Lucic huffed. "After all this? Trust me when I say at the end of this session you'll be so tired you'll have to crawl off the ice."

Carey smirked. "Now _that_ sounds a lot more like you," he said. "But really, I promise I won't think less of you if you stick to the bench and look on."

"Much as I hate to admit it, that's probably what's going to happen," Lucic agreed with a bit of a shrug as they got inside Carey's truck. "You know, I thought you hated all this training? Mind you, I can understand how you might be excited about going out on the ice again."

"Excited? Who said anything about—"

"Liar."

"Okay, fine, maybe I am," Carey admitted sheepishly. "Just a little. It's been a while, you know? A long while."

"I know," Lucic replied, nodding. "I'd be aching to feel like a hockey player again myself, I'm sure."

"I'm not aching to—"

"Yeah, keep it up, Pinocchio. We both know you're lying."

Carey shrugged, a little embarrassed by the fact he was being so obvious when he thought he'd been hiding it so well. Besides, he'd already admitted once that he missed playing, so it probably hadn't been that hard to guess.

Of course, after he stepped out on the ice and skated toward the face-off circle at the center of the ice, his grin was so wide, he would have had the hardest time convincing anyone that this wasn't what he really wanted to do—it was written all over his face.

Carey skated around from one end of the rink to the other, getting a feel for the ice again; getting his legs back, so to speak. His laps weren't very fast, nor really anything to work up much of a sweat with, just enough to get reacquainted with the surroundings, getting accustomed to skating again, and using his lower body muscles in ways he hadn't in a very long time, and that training in a gym didn't quite replicate. He shot a few pucks into the net just for kicks, though he celebrated every "goal" as if he'd actually scored in a game.

Meanwhile, Lucic stood near the bench, his back against the protective glass, having never even bothered putting on skates at all. There was no shouting at Carey that he should try harder or better, no pushing, no forcing him to go on at all; he just watched and smiled a lot, and he cheered whenever Carey shot a puck into the net, playing his part as an audience of one.

They left about a half hour after they'd arrived, with no one having had to crawl off the ice, metaphorically or otherwise. And though Carey had complained, very vaguely, of cramping in his feet and legs, the entire drive back he had a huge grin plastered on his face, which Lucic pretended not to have noticed at all.

"Hey, look, about tomorrow..." Lucic began, stepping out of the truck. He closed the door and leaned in a bit through the rolled down window.

"You should rest if you're not feeling any better," Carey offered immediately. "I'm sorry I insisted so much."

"Don't be," said Lucic with a dismissive wave. "That's not it though." He grimaced and ran a hand over his face, before finally explaining in an apologetic tone, "I'll have the Cup here tomorrow."

"Ah."

"Listen, if you want, you're welcome to come hang out—"

"Yeah, no thanks," said Carey shaking his head sharply. "I'm sure I can find something else to do with my time."

Lucic shrugged. "Well, if you change your mind..."

"Not likely," Carey snorted. "I'll see you on Monday. Enjoy your day."

Carey spent the next morning staring blankly at his TV, trying to convince himself that no, he really didn't _want_ to hang out anywhere the Stanley Cup was going to be. By early afternoon he was so bored that he finally headed out and drove aimlessly around the city.

It was really just a coincidence that he happened to be at the market at Granville Island and caught a glimpse of the Cup, with the rest of the cheering crowd amassed there for the occasion. Or so he told himself repeatedly. Besides, it wasn't as though Lucic would ever find out he'd been there, anyway.

***

The following Tuesday was Carey's birthday. Faced with the prospect of spending the evening mostly alone, he found himself blurting out a spontaneous invitation once they got done with their workout for the day.

"Hey, what do you say we go out, have a few drinks somewhere, play some pool?" he asked Lucic, feeling a little stupid at how eager he sounded.

"Training camp is in less than a month," Lucic replied, "I'm laying off beer and alcohol until then. Which, you know, you probably should, too. No offense, but you seem to be drinking a little too much, a lot too often."

"So, you're implying I have a drinking problem, now?" Carey asked, clearly offended.

"You think I haven't noticed you showing up hung over in the morning?" Lucic replied, raising an eyebrow. "Or perhaps you think I don't remember how wasted you were when I met you the first time?"

Carey gave him a dirty look. "What I was doing that night is none of your damn business," he replied. "And I'm never _hung over_. Maybe I looked a little hazy to you some mornings, but that's what happens when you take those pain meds the doctor gives me, which, by the way, I did not take for my own enjoyment. I took them when I was in enough pain it would just have been stupid not to do anything about it."

"Pretty sure your physician must have mentioned that chasing them with beer is not what you're supposed to do," Lucic countered. "I've heard how badly you slur your words at night. I know you've been drinking."

"Do you have _any_ idea how much pain I was in, the first few days?" Carey asked, eyes narrow in anger. "Because trust me, if you did, you would have been doing whatever the hell you could to make it go away."

"Yeah, no, obviously I have no idea what pain could possibly be like," Lucic told him, sarcasm dripping from his every words. "I never hurt myself playing hockey at all, I've never had any kind of back pain whatsoever, and it's really just a _rumor_ that I played through most of the playoffs with a broken toe." He rolled his eyes. "Of course I know what pain is, I'm a hockey player! And you know what? If knocking yourself out on pain killers and booze is what you want to do with your life, then go right ahead, but don't expect me to hang around to watch. Training is serious. If you're not going to see it that way, then you should just go back to riding horses, because you'll never be a hockey player. You're either serious about this, or you're wasting your time—and mine. Honestly, I have better things to do."

Carey had grown progressively more angry and hurt. "You know what? Screw you," he spat. "For your information, I haven't had either in days, and if I hadn't been serious about this, I would have gone home to my horses weeks ago, thank you very much." He grabbed his keys and cell phone off the shelf in his locker, then before walking away, said, "So excuse me for wanting to have just a little bit of fun _on my birthday_ and thinking maybe you'd want to hang out with me for some insane reason. Obviously a Stanley Cup winner wouldn't want to waste his time with anyone as flawed and disappointing as I am."

"Shit," Lucic muttered through his teeth. "Hang on, wait," he then pleaded, "I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"Yeah, whatever," Carey shot over his shoulder, walking away.

"Oh, come on, Carey, wait," Lucic called, trying to catch up to him. "I didn't know."

"What? That I'm not the addict you figured me out to be? Or that you really rock at sucking the fun right out of my life?"

"Either, both," said Lucic. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut, then sighed heavily. "I really had no idea, and I'm sorry. At least let me try and make it up to you."

"Why? So you can feel better about yourself?" Carey replied, frowning, arms crossed against his chest. "You know, you spend an awful lot of time telling me what I should or shouldn't be doing, even though you hardly know a thing about me at all. I thought coming here would be a good idea, but in retrospect, seeing as though I've been miserable every day since I got here, maybe I should just have stayed home."

"You seemed happy on Saturday, at the rink," Lucic offered in a quiet tone. "Look, clearly I'm an idiot. Please let me make it up to you." At Carey's unconvinced expression, he went on, "Come on, dinner, wherever you like. My treat." Then, a little hesitantly, he added, "And you can tell me those things you think I should know about you."

"You won't suddenly go all high and mighty on me and decide that my life choices are wrong?" Carey asked cautiously. "And if I order a beer, you're not going to judge?"

"I promise not to behave like an ass."

"...ever again?" Carey suggested, a small teasing smile forming on his lips.

Lucic chuckled. "I'd be crazy to make that kind of a promise," he said, "But I will make every effort tonight, though. Seriously."

"Fair enough," said Carey with a small shrug meant to distract from an expression that had turned a little embarrassed. "At least you're honest."

Dinner turned out to be rather simple—at a steakhouse, although one of the better ones—and neither of them ordered anything to drink besides water; Lucic because training camp was just around the corner, and Carey just to prove that he really _could_ go without for an evening. Lucic teased him, of course, but gently, and it wasn't pride or frustration, but simple determination that made Carey swear to lay off beer until all the hard work had actually paid off—with only very few exceptions allowed, for sanity's sake.

Perhaps it was the result of not having any alcohol, but somewhere between the main course and dessert, the evening had starting to feel way too much like a _date_ , making Carey increasingly uncomfortable about the entire thing. It was crazy, of course, and Carey knew it. There was no way this could possibly have been a date—Lucic would never have gone for a guy like him in the first place, he was very certain of that. Besides, what would _he_ possibly want with a _Bruin_ anyway?

***

On the last Monday of August, as they were slowly getting off the ice after a short, casual game, Carey took a long look around the rink. He was going home in a couple of days, and wouldn't come here again for quite some time. There was a rink he could go to close to home of course, but it would never be the same as this one—he wasn't all that likely to find others to practice or play with, either. Here, he might have found a league to join and people to play some actual hockey with, but that would have meant spending the winter in Vancouver, something he just plain couldn't afford to do.

By the time they got out of the arena, which Carey exited almost reluctantly, Lucic seemed to have picked up on the fact that something wasn't quite right.

"Something the matter?" he asked, as they headed to the parking lot.

"Hm?" Carey looked over to him distractedly. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Is something wrong?" Lucic asked, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "You've been acting kind of weird the last few minutes."

"It's nothing," said Carey.

The entire ride back to Lucic's place was spent in silence, as Carey stubbornly refused to say what it was that was bothering him.

"Hey, you want to come in and hang out a bit?" Lucic suggested as Carey pulled up in front of his house. "I have steaks we could grill later, if you'd like."

Carey shot him a curious look. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Maybe?"

"Ah, come on, it'll be fun."

"Sure, why not," Carey replied with a small shrug as he parked his truck.

They sat in the backyard for a little while, sipping Gatorade, for lack of any "adult" drink they could have, until Lucic apparently got tired of waiting for a confession that didn't show sings of ever coming.

"So," he began, "are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or do I have to find a way to drag it out of you?"

"It's nothing," Carey sighed. "Nothing to concern yourself with, anyway."

"There has to be a reason you're acting so strange," Lucic insisted. "You walked out of the arena and stared at the entrance like you were never going to see it again. Seriously, what's up?"

Carey shrugged, then finally admitted, "Well I'm kind of not actually."

"What?"

"I'm going back home on Wednesday," Carey explained. "So that was the last game for the summer. There might not be another for a while, I don't know yet." He shrugged as if to mean it didn't matter very much, though deep down of course it mattered.

"Really?" Lucic said, surprised. "But I thought you were enjoying playing again? You've changed your mind?"

"No, not exactly, but..." Carey shrugged again.

Lucic stared at him a long moment, as if he could find the answers just by looking. "Then what?" he finally asked. "Why aren't you sticking around? You've been doing so well, it'd be a shame to let that go to waste."

"Yeah, I know, but it's not like I've got much of a choice, really," said Carey. "I don't have the means to stay here anymore. Besides, someone needs to prep the horses for winter, and the house, and everything else, too. Not to mention there are events I could compete in between now and next summer, and I can't exactly afford to turn my nose up at them."

"You don't really expect me to believe that there are rodeos in _winter_ , do you?" Lucic replied, then immediately waved his hand dismissively and went on, "Never mind, that's not the point. If you quit now, all this work you put in will pretty much have been for nothing. You've got access to a real gym here, and a trainer who's more than happy to keep working with you, not to mention actual leagues that'd be happy to have you play in them. You can't convince me that you'd have even half of that in your neck of the woods. And yet you'd rather go back home and stay idle all winter? Really?"

"You're not listening to me," Carey insisted. "It's not that I think I'd be better off going home, only I'm not rich enough to rent a place in the city all winter and so I can play hockey, which comes at a cost as well for that matter. My only source of income is dependant on whether or not I take part in competitions, and I've lost an entire month this summer already. I hadn't planned for any of this, and I really can't afford to stay much longer."

"Yes you can," Lucic replied, insisting. He got up and disappeared inside he house, returning a few moments later. He tossed Carey a set of keys. "You can stay _here_ ," he told him.

Carey tossed the keys right back to him. "No, I can't—"

"Look," Lucic cut in right away, "I'm not going to be here for months. The house will be empty all winter."

"Yes, but I've told you before, I don't want charity handouts."

"And I've told you as well, this isn't what I'm doing," Lucic replied. "There won't be anyone here until Christmas—and I wouldn't expect you to be here for that anyway—so the only time we'd even be sharing the space is around All Star break."

"And the time between now and whenever you leave for Boston again," Carey said, raising an eyebrow. "I have to move out in two days at the latest no matter what."

"What? You don't think you can stand being around me for a couple weeks, tops?" Lucic asked. "The place is more than big enough to share, you know. There's two other bedrooms beside mine, we wouldn't even have to share a bathroom." He handed Carey the keys again, but Carey wouldn't take them. "Ah, come on, Carey, do yourself a favor and take the damn keys. I'll even help you move in. Whenever you like... Tomorrow, Wednesday. Right now."

Carey looked up to the sky, shaking his head. "You're just going to keep insisting until I accept, aren't you?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question, of course—Lucic never seemed to take no for an answer. Carey looked back to find him smiling impishly. "Okay, then," he sighed, though mostly for show. He took the keys that were being dangled in front of his face. "I'll find a way to make it up to you eventually."

"I'm not asking you for anything in return."

"See, but that's what I don't get," said Carey sighing again, this time in mild frustration. "There was never any reason for you to help me in the first place. It's not like we were even friends. I don't _understand_."

"Well..." Lucic began, then shrugged. "We're friends now, though, right?" he asked, sounding strangely uncertain.

Carey frowned, wondering how there could have been anything doubtful about that. "Well, yeah, of course we're friends," he said.

A few hours later, Carey forced himself off the couch as the credits rolled at the end of the movie they'd been watching. It was late, and he should really have been heading back to his own place for the night. Granted, in theory, he could very well have remained there, but all this things were still in the studio he rented, halfway across town from there.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and he walked off in the direction of the front door.

"Bright and early," Lucic replied, looking up over the back of the couch quickly. "Expect to have your ass kicked in the gym before lunch," he joked.

"Dream on, L—" Carey started, hand on the doorknob, just about to head out, but he stopped abruptly as something dawned on him suddenly. He took a few steps back so he could have clear view into the living room again. "Hey, Milan?" he said, making a point of using his first name, however weird it sounded for him to do so, "Thanks, by the way. You know, for everything."

Milan's head popped up over the back of the couch. "What did you just say?" he asked, looking surprised.

"See, this is what you get for listening to your iPod so loud when you're on the bike," Carey replied with a smirk. Then, carefully enunciating every word, he added, "I said _thank you_."

"No, I meant—" Milan shook his head, apparently changing his mind mid-sentence. "Never mind," he said. "And, you know... You're welcome."

"'Night," said Carey, still smirking as he walked out the door.

In just over a month's time, Milan Lucic had had his status upgraded from "annoying guy with a Stanley Cup ring" all the way to "close friend" and Carey really wasn't sure exactly _how_ the guy could possibly have missed, or misunderstood that. Well, this ought to help make it plainly obvious, now. Or so Carey hoped as he drove away.

***

Before heading into the city, on the very last day of August, Carey had loaded all of his stuff—of which there was really very little besides clothing—into the back of his truck, then given the landlord his keys back. He'd absolutely refused to leave until the very last day, claiming that since he was paying for the place, he was going to make use of it right until the end.

The very first morning, Carey stumbled into the kitchen, awoken by the wonderful scent of a freshly brewed pot of coffee.

"Morning," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, before dropping into the closest unoccupied chair.

"You're not seriously thinking of wearing this _here_ , are you?" Milan remarked in lieu of a greeting.

"Huh?" Carey replied, looking down at himself in confusion. He had an old t-shirt on and had actually bothered pulling on a pair of shorts over his boxers before even stepping out of his bedroom. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"That shirt," Milan replied, an obvious expression of distaste on his face. "Rule number one: my house is a Habs-free zone."

Carey blinked at him. "You've got to be kidding me," he said. "You know, in theory, I _am_ a Hab. Or, would have been, at any rate. Should have been... Whatever. Are you now objecting to me being here altogether?"

"No, no," said Milan, shaking his head. "Of course I don't object to _you_ , that would be stupid. I just don't want to have to look at that logo, especially not first thing in the morning."

"That's seriously taking rivalry to a whole other level, you realize?"

"Your point?" Milan asked, raising a challenging eyebrow. "Just get that thing out of my face, will you?"

"Fine," Carey sighed, and he took the shirt off, draping it over the back of the chair beside him. "Better?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly as he reclined against the back of his chair.

Milan eyed him for a moment, an eyebrow raised, as if waiting for Carey's next move. Then, shaking his head, he got up and disappeared into the laundry room, coming back out a moment later with a shirt which he tossed over to Carey. "Put something on, will ya," he said with the most theatrical of eye rolls.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Carey complained, looking over the black Bruins shirt—complete with Lucic's name and number on the back, no less. He pulled it on with a long, suffering sigh. "You happy now that you've reduced me to the ranks of puck bunny?" he asked, gesturing at the big Bruins logo on the front of the t-shirt.

"Oh, as if," Milan replied, snorting. "Besides, you look great in black and gold."

"Wouldn't be my first choice of colors to wear for sure," said Carey as he got up to get himself a cup of coffee.

"You could do a lot worse, you know."

"Betcha I could do better, too," Carey replied, a touch of challenge in his voice.

Milan chuckled. "Better than the Stanley Cup champions? Dream on!"

"Yeah, well give me a couple years and I'll have my name on that thing, too, you'll see. And the Vezina, and the Hart, and—"

"Calm down, cowboy," said Milan, still chuckling. "You gotta make it into the league for that first."

Carey shrugged. "Yeah, I know," he said, his previous bravado clearly gone. "But I will. Eventually."

"You know, coming from a guy who'd given up on hockey completely, I'd say this is a huge improvement," Milan told him, a lopsided grin on his face.

"Yeah, well, apparently I'm an idiot," said Carey, mostly to himself, as he took a long sip from his coffee cup.

"Maybe," Milan replied. "But you're a _hockey-playing_ idiot now. Or you will be, at any rate."

"I hope so," said Carey quietly. His expression quickly turned to amusement and he went on to ask, "You know what I'll never be, though?" And at Milan's obviously clueless look, he grinned and added, "A Bruin."

Carey had worried that his moving in the day before would make things weird, awkward, possibly uncomfortable, but as they shared a laugh that morning it seemed that things had settled into a nice, comfortable rhythm after all. Sure, he'd had to swallow his pride a little bit as he'd unpacked his things, but all in all, living here might not have been such a bad decision after all.

***

Carey left a few days later and headed back home, arguing that he had sponsors to meet and horses to check on. In reality, he'd made a point of heading up there before Milan had to leave for Boston. Although things had definitely settled, and living in his house wasn't awkward or strange at all, it would have been odd, if not downright uncomfortable for Carey to see Milan off while remaining there himself, _in his house_. So, he'd opted not to be there then. Besides, between an abrupt-looking departure and a possibly awkward goodbye, the choice hadn't exactly been a hard one to make.

Coming back, a week later, he found a couple of things had been left for him. The first was a note stuck to the fridge which said: _"I retained the maid services for the winter, someone will come by every Tuesday afternoon. Try not to trash the place, will ya?"_ The other was the Bruins t-shirt he'd worn and the Habs one that he wasn't allowed to, both of them neatly folded and placed on the dresser in his bedroom. He chalked it up to an honest mistake by the maid.

September saw NHL hockey slowly start again, but it also marked the start of the season for the small beer league team where Carey had managed to find himself a spot. He was third in line for the starter position, making him the backup's backup, and knew he wasn't likely to see much ice at all, but having a team to practice with, and people to hang out with was a good enough trade off, he figured. Besides, he'd known they wouldn't give the starter spot to a guy who hadn't seen any ice in all of three years, no matter who he'd been, once upon a time. They'd promised him a start, eventually, which he knew was the most he could hope for, and he was perfectly fine with that.

Sitting in the stands most of the time, or the actual players' bench if he was lucky that night, the most hockey action Carey saw throughout October and most of November was actually on TV, where he watched the Bruins literally steamroll over one opponent after another. Until one day, Carey finally got told he'd be starting that night. In fact, with the starting goalie nursing a pulled groin muscle, and the backup out with the flu, he'd outright been told to expect he might actually get to start the next two—back-to-back—games.

Carey paced nervously around the living room, suddenly and inexplicably afraid that he wouldn't be able to do this at all. That, once put into a real game situation, he'd fall apart completely. This would be his first real game in over three years—no matter how many scrimmages and friendly match-ups he'd been involved in, these were nothing compared to an actual game. This game had an outcome other than just his ability to spend an entire sixty minutes on the ice stopping pucks, there were stats and standings to consider; this was a real game, that counted for more than just pride. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he would have none of the usual "support system" that had always been around for first games, and playoff games, and all the important ones where having someone there encouraging him on actually made some sort of a difference. There would be no one but his teammates there that night—and fans from the _opposing_ team.

Eventually tired of pacing, and having decided he was going to go and crash for a little while, so that he'd be at least somewhat rested for the game, Carey walked into his bedroom where the first thing he spotted was that damned Bruins shirt, which he'd left on the dresser all this time. He'd never bothered to take it back where it really belonged, in Milan's bedroom—partly because it amused him to see it always there, sitting on top of the old Habs shirt he hadn't worn again, but partly because he wouldn't allow himself to go wandering into that bedroom. It wasn't his, he had no business there, and snooping around someone else's things wasn't exactly something he was keen on in the first place. Especially when said someone else was nice enough to provide you with a roof over your head for the winter.

Having shed his jeans and shirt, Carey was just about to slip under the covers of his bed, when all of a sudden a thought popped into his head. He walked over to the dresser, grabbed the black t-shirt, looked around quickly as if worried that someone might catch him in the act, and slipped the shirt on. He nervously looked around again, popping his head out into the corridor as if there was any chance he wasn't alone in the house, although he knew perfectly well that he was. It was a ridiculous thing to worry about being caught putting that shirt on, and just as ridiculous an idea for him to want to wear it in the first place, but Carey needed something, _anything_ that might help boost his confidence levels for this game, and...well, surely it was stupid, but this was a shirt that belonged to a Stanley Cup winner, and who knew, maybe some of that could somehow bleed off onto him?

Stupid idea or not, Carey slid under the sheets with the t-shirt on, confident in the knowledge that no one would ever find out he'd done it anyway. The Bruins were in Florida that day—there was no earthly way Milan could possibly show up here right then and there unless teleportation had been invented in the last few hours, which Carey was quite certain it hadn't. Besides, other than ridicule him for it, Carey was certain that Milan wouldn't care that he was even doing this at all—hell, he'd worn the shirt that first morning already and the only thing Milan had said was that he'd looked good in it.

Of course, after his team had won the game—a 4-3 overtime victory—and won the next one, too, Carey took to wearing the shirt on game days, which started becoming more frequent as the team's outright starting goaltender ended up being sidelined with a groin injury for longer than they'd expected. It was still silly to want to wear the shirt, half-expecting some kind of magical transfer of strength or energy from its fibers onto his skin, but Carey did it anyway. Or maybe it just helped him feel a little less lonely than usual; as if he wasn't really all alone in a house that wasn't even his.

And since no one would ever find out about any of this—other than the cleaning lady who'd caught him wearing it that day he was lying on the couch, sick with the flu—what sort of difference was it really going to make anyway?

***

November turned into December, fall became winter, and all of a sudden, it was Christmas. Knowing that Milan was flying back for the holiday—he'd reminded him on the phone a few times already—and having heard him mention a few times that he didn't expect Carey to stick around Vancouver then, he had headed home again the day before Milan came back.

Before leaving, however, Carey had set up a huge, natural Christmas tree—fully decorated, of course—in the living room. On one of the branches, he'd hung a note which read "Isn't this a lot better than your artificial one?" Then, under the tree, all wrapped up in festive paper, he'd placed a big, warm woollen blanket. Inside the card attached to it, he'd written "If Boston is anywhere near as cold as this place is at night, I figured you'd need one." It wasn't exactly a lot, but it was _something_ and it was better than to leave nothing under the tree.

Carey didn't come back again until after New Year's Day, having spent as much time with family and friends as he could, something which he'd badly needed. When he returned to Vancouver, the first thing he noticed upon walking into the house was that his Christmas tree had dried up and lost all its needles. He'd expected that, of course, being that it had been almost a week since Milan had left again, and hence the tree hadn't been watered in much too long to keep it alive. What he hadn't expected, however, was to find a present under the tree. A present for _him_ , buried under a mountain of pine needles.

Inside the box, Carey found a hockey jersey. A bright red Montreal Canadiens home jersey—the real thing, complete with a fight strap, and even his own name sown on the back. He stared at it in awe for some time, turning it over, inspecting it, as if in doing so he'd eventually find out what the catch was, or some sort of proof that this was really just a joke. The only thing he did find, however, was a note which read "It wouldn't have been my first choice, but I knew this was the one you'd want. PS: This isn't a present, it's your goal for next year."

It took him several long minutes before he managed to get up from where he'd been sitting, jersey in hand, eyeing it in disbelief, though he was quite certain that it was real, and definitely not a joke. He hadn't expected to find anything waiting for him at all, and even if he'd had, never in a million years would he ever have imagined to find this. Everything about that jersey, every little thing, even the the note stating it wasn't a gift but something to aim for, but especially who it was from, made this into a _huge_ deal, and Carey was suddenly quite happy to have been alone upon finding it, as he wouldn't have had a clue how to react to this in person. In fact, it took a few hours before he even trusted himself to pick up the phone and call to say thank you without making a fool of himself by turning pathetically emotional.

The jersey ended up hanging securely on a hook, on the inside of Carey's closet door, where he saw it every time he reached inside for something to wear. And every single time he promised himself he would earn the right to wear it.

***

As April rolled around and marked the end of hockey season, professional and otherwise, Carey packed his things up again and headed home for the summer, leaving nothing behind but his hockey gear. He'd need that again in a few months and saw no real reason to lug it up all the way home only to have to bring it all back once summer was over. Besides, Vancouver was the only place where he would have any hopes of playing real hockey again come next fall, and having his gear already there waiting for him would serve as one more incentive to go back to the city once more.

Carey barely had any time to breathe between his last game and his first rodeo in mid-April. However, going from the rink and the ice straight to the dusty rodeo arena left him with very little time to regret or miss what he'd left behind. Not that there was much to miss, really. Or so he hoped to convince himself of, anyway.

Weeks went by with rodeo events lined up just about every weekend, and between them roping practice, a lot of driving from one city to another, one stampede to the next. It was a nice, almost relaxing change from a winter of hockey, but by the time July came along, Carey was starting to ache for some sort of a break—a real one. He hadn't stopped for months now and he was really starting to feel it now, all these months of effort and training, and hockey, followed by several straight weeks of nothing but horses and roping and no rest at all.

Carey pulled his horse out of the trailer, slowly getting ready to take part in what he'd decided would be his last event of the season. It was early-July, but he needed the time off so he could head back to Vancouver refreshed enough to start training again, especially considering he hoped to be able to earn himself a tryout with a team before the start of the next season. Of course, with the collective bargaining agreement still unsigned, and all the things this implied, it might be another year before he ever had a chance at a tryout, but that didn't mean he shouldn't still be ready in case things settled before the end of the summer.

He'd been brushing his horse, thinking about how nice it was going to be to take a few days off after this weekend, when all of a sudden...

"Nice horse you got there," came a familiar voice behind him.

Carey stopped abruptly. "Well, well, fancy meeting you here," he said, a little surprised, as he turned to face Milan. They'd vaguely discussed meeting up over the summer, but Carey hadn't really believed that Milan would show up at a rodeo—he'd done so the previous year, sure, but this was different. Then again, this event was taking place less than two hours from Vancouver, so it wasn't as much of a shock as last year's unexpected meeting, hours away from British Columbia altogether.

Milan smiled lopsidedly as he replied, "Any chance I can convince you I was in the neighborhood visiting a friend?"

"Anyone I know?" Carey asked, a bit of a smirk on his face.

"Mmm... I don't think so," said Milan, frowning. "He's a hockey player, and I seem to remember something about you not hanging around with those much."

"Strange, because I seem to remember hanging out with you a lot... Unless you made up the part about playing hockey?"

Grimacing, Milan replied, "Considering how well we played last season, I might as well have."

"Ah, come on, it wasn't that bad," Carey countered. "Chances of the same team winning the Cup twice in a row are pretty slim nowadays, anyway." Sensing the conversation would end up on a slippery slope from there, Carey quickly attempted to change the subject, "Are you just passing through?"

"What, and miss a chance to see with my own eyes how good you're supposed to be at these things?" Milan replied in a chuckle. "I mean, you _are_ supposed to be pretty good, aren't you?"

"I'm...not bad," said Carey trying to hide a smile.

He'd been about to comment on how he was getting pretty good at hockey again as well, when his roping partner came along, interrupting the conversation with a reminder that there were still things they needed to take care of before the beginning of the competition, a few hours later. Quick introductions later, Carey left with a promise that he'd catch up with Milan later and they'd hang out a bit more.

However, between practice and competitions, caring for his horse and other already planned activities throughout the weekend, Carey barely had more than a few hours to himself at all, and the most he saw of Milan were a few glimpses here and there—and most of the time, the man seemed to be stuck signing autographs anyway...

"Sorry I couldn't free myself much at all," Carey apologized when they ran into one another on the last day, after the competitions were over, and everyone was getting ready to leave.

"Ah, it's fine," said Milan, waving dismissively. "I sort of expected you'd have better things to do."

"Yeah, but I—" Carey began, stopping himself just short of admitting how much he'd _wanted_ to spend time with him. Not that saying so would have been wrong, but he realized that he'd missed him more than he'd wanted to admit to himself until now, and he wasn't really sure that kind of sentiment went both ways at all. "But I promised we'd hang out," he said instead.

"We can hang out together until you're sick of me, when you're back in Vancouver," Milan replied. His expression changed almost immediately from a teasing smile to a worried frown as he went on to ask, "You are coming back, aren't you?"

"Well yeah, of course," said Carey now frowning as well. "I mean, I left all my gear there, so..."

"But that's all you left," Milan said, sounding a little doubtful. "And—" he shrugged "—oh, I don't know... I watched you this weekend, and you really look like you're in your element here, so I guess I thought maybe you wouldn't come back after all?"

"Of course I'm in my element here," Carey snorted. "I grew up here, this is who I am," he explained, eyes shining with pride. "But this isn't all I am, it's not everything to me. As much as I'm happy _here_ , this isn't who I want to be, it's not where I belong."

A teasing smile on his lips, Milan asked, "And where would that be?"

"Oh ,like you don't know," Carey replied, laughing. "A hockey rink, with a fresh sheet of ice under my skates and pucks hurled in my direction? That's where I want to be, that's where I'm _supposed_ to be."

"You really want it bad, don't you?"

"Why else would I have spent hours in the gym with you for a slave master, and enrolled in a beer league just so I could finally play again? I stopped drinking, even. Hell, I've been going to A.A. meetings all winter. Yeah, I want it bad, and someday I'm going to get it, too. Just watch me."

"Well, there's always a room waiting for you when ever you decide to head on back to Vancouver. You still have the keys, right?"

There was something in Milan's smile just then... but it wasn't the smug _I-told-you-so_ look that Carey had expected. And while he'd been determined to rent a place of his own for the remainder of the summer, just as he'd done the year before, Carey found himself unable to argue about it, let alone refuse. "Yeah, uh, sure," he said a little nervously. "Yeah, I still have them."

"Cool," said Milan, a satisfied expression on his face. "I'll see you in a few weeks, then, eh?"

Carey nodded, still a little surprised at himself for having agreed so quickly. Granted he was glad to have been extended the invitation, but it wasn't much like himself to accept so easily, especially when he'd argued so much and so often before that he wasn't looking for any handouts. Then again, it would probably have been a bit stupid to argue or refuse something he actually wanted. Not that there was any reason for him to want _that_ , really—besides the fact that he enjoyed the company. Or so he told himself...

And for the very first time, instead of getting pissed drunk, alone in a bar somewhere, Carey spent the anniversary of the accident that had cost him his hockey-playing dreams making the trek back to Vancouver.

***

The first couple of weeks after Carey had come back to Vancouver, mid-July, were...well, odd.

He'd almost walked out of his room the very first morning wearing Milan's Bruins t-shirt, which he'd taken to wear practically every morning from the moment he got up until he hopped in the shower after breakfast. Conscious that this would definitely not have come across very well, he'd immediately stored the shirt at the bottom of a drawer, promising himself he'd return it when Milan wasn't looking.

Milan really didn't seem to be like his old, normal self anymore, though Carey couldn't quite figure out why. His best guess was that Milan was worried about the CBA negotiations, which still hadn't resulted in any kind of agreement, threatening the start of the hockey season. Although that didn't explain why he always looked so sullen, especially those evenings Carey had gone out to A.A. meetings.

Late one afternoon, Carey stepped out of his bedroom in a freshly pressed suit, and as he passed through the living room, quickly told Milan that he was going out for dinner, but that he expected to be back early.

Milan looked up from the couch and frowned, looking Carey up and down. "Seeing someone special, huh?" he commented. He sounded bitter; more so than usual.

"I wouldn't exactly call him special," Carey replied with a bit of a shrug. "Important, though."

"Well, lucky guy," Milan muttered under his breath as he hoisted himself off the couch.

Carey frowned as he watched him walk away, wondering what he'd done or said that was wrong this time. So he'd been wearing a suit to go meet with his agent—best he knew, there was really nothing out of the ordinary about that at all...

He came back to what looked like an empty house, but upon further inspection found that Milan was apparently hiding in his bedroom. Why, Carey had no clue. He debated knocking on the door and asking, but decided that if the door was closed it was probably because Milan didn't want to talk, so Carey left him alone and retreated to his own bedroom instead.

They had barely exchanged more than a couple of words the next morning by the time they headed out toward the arena in Carey's car. They were halfway there already when, tired of the awkward silence, frustration starting to bubble up inside him, Carey decided he'd had enough.

"Look, if you've changed your mind and I'm in your way, just tell me, okay?" he said abruptly.

Milan's head snapped in his direction. "What?" he asked, looking genuinely surprised. "You're not in the way."

"What the hell's the matter, then?" Carey asked, exasperated. "Because you've been giving me grief all week and I don't understand what your damn problem is with me going to A.A. meetings, or having dinner with my agent!"

"Your agent?" Milan echoed slowly, sounding like he'd never heard of the concept before.

"Yes, my agent. How else am I supposed to get a tryout anywhere?"

"You were meeting your _agent_?"

"Yes," Carey snapped back, annoyed at Milan's obvious disbelief. "What's your problem with me having an agent? Geez!"

"I don't have a prob—"

"Well if not with that, then it's something else," Carey cut in immediately, "because clearly you have some sort of problem with me right now, and you know what? I really can't do this anymore. I'll be out of your place by the end of the week, it's just better that way. It's not a big deal."

Milan sighed in defeat. "You don't—" he started, then sighed again. "You don't have to do that. Look, I'm sorry, I've been an ass all week, and you deserved better than that. I'm sorry."

"What's _wrong_ , then?" Carey pressed on, though in a softer, much less annoyed tone.

"Nothing, I'm just—" Milan began, stopping abruptly mid-sentence as if he'd changed his mind. "It's nothing, never mind," he said with a shrug. "You're not in my way, and I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. There's no need for you to move out. Everything's fine."

"Okay," Carey said almost absently, his concentration now focused on parking his truck.

He'd thought that things would go back to normal, having settled the matter— _sort of_ settled—but their first skate of the summer would instead turn everything completely upside-down...

***

They'd spent the first few minutes of ice-time warming up and stretching, skating a few laps around the rink to get the feel of it back, until enough other people had joined them that they could form teams for scrimmage.

Most of the guys there were nowhere near NHL skill-level, so none of these sessions were ever that organized or serious. Players would simply skate around, pass the puck, and shoot for either of the two goals—they rarely ever counted how many pucks got past the goalies, or kept track of who had scored at all.

Of course, being that Milan had several times everyone else's skills and abilities, he could easily take the puck from one end of the ice all the way to the other and bury it in the net, then do it all over again once the puck was in play again. And though he wasn't exactly showboating at all, it was obvious that he took pleasure in repeating the "exploit."

Often times, guys would encourage him on, chuckling about it and enjoying the fact they were even able to be on the ice at the same time as a Stanley Cup winner.

Not everyone was amused about it today, however. One of the guys on Carey's team seemed very much annoyed by it, in fact. He was a short, stocky guy, a good few years older than everyone else, and apparently very frustrated by the fact that he was never the one in possession of the puck.

Milan had just started yet another run from one end of the ice to the other, finding very little opposition until he got to the offensive zone. He'd deked around one defenseman already and was almost within reach of the net, when out of seemingly nowhere came short-stocky-frustrated-player who, with one good jab of his stick at the back of the skates, tripped Milan up, sending him barreling feet first toward the net.

Unable to stop his course, Milan rammed straight into Carey who hadn't been quick enough to get out of the way, and just like that the goaltender landed face first on top of the forward.

Carey stared wide-eyed at Milan who was lying under him, breathing hard. At that instant he knew that, had he not been been wearing a mask, he might have done something...foolish. Completely _insane_ , even. Something like lean in a little more and kiss him, right there on the ice, in front of a dozen strangers who'd probably be rushing to their iPhones to tweet pictures of it to the rest of the world. Something he shouldn't be doing but wanted all the same.

Of course the moment didn't last...

"Get off me, dammit, you weight a fucking tonne in that gear," Milan complained, as he attempted to shove Carey off him.

"Sorry, sorry," Carey muttered, getting back to his feet as quickly as he could manage, now suddenly glad his mask hadn't somehow been knocked off in the collision. That mask had just saved him from making a really huge mistake, he knew.

As Carey dusted himself off, making sure his equipment was still properly in place and secure, Milan skated over to the player who'd tripped him, exchanging words in an heated argument. Other players intervened to separate them, play stopped for a long moment, and both offending players were sent to "reflect upon their actions" for a few minutes each.

Play never quite resumed after the incident, and although there was still plenty of ice time left in the session, guys slowly started leaving the ice and, one by one, heading back into the dressing room. Carey eventually followed suit, seeing no point in staying there when there were barely any skaters left in the ice at all. He dropped his glove and blocker on the bench, then removed his pads, but instead of stripping off the rest of his gear, he headed back out of the dressing room, toward the rink.

Since there was ice time left, he figured he could use it to skate a few laps without all his heavy, bulky goalie gear. He hadn't skated in months and though there was no real need for a goaltender to be as quick on his skates as the guys expected to charge to the net with the puck and score goals, skating was as good an exercise as any to help keep his legs strong.

There were still a couple of guys out on the ice—one of them Milan, the other, the youngest D from his "team"—shooting pucks into an empty next. Carey grabbed a stick and joined them. He wasn't a great shot, but this was still more fun than skating laps all alone at the other end of the rink.

They'd gone a few times, one after the other, skating toward the net and shooting the puck as hard as they could, then circling around to get back in line for another shot, laughing and daring the next guy to do better than they had.

Carey had just had his turn again, burying the puck deep inside the net, and he was skating away when he heard the loud, distinctive clink of a puck against the goalpost. The accompanying frantic cry of warning came a fraction of a second too late for Carey to react, and the puck hit him right on the side of his surgically-repaired leg, a few inches below the knee. He crumpled to the ice in a loud, agonizing yelp.

Milan was beside him in less than a heartbeat, mumbling barely coherent apologies as Carey clutched his leg, forehead resting against the cold, hard ice.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Milan kept repeating, one hand resting against Carey's back. "Are you all right?"

Carey looked up, tears of pain shining in his eyes. "Does it _look_ like I'm okay?" he spat between clenched teeth.

Eyes screwed tightly shut, Milan exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean for the puck to hit you," he apologized in a small voice. Opening his eyes again, and insisting on every word, he added, "I am so sorry."

Carey stared at him, irritated, though he kept the insults that were burning his lips to himself. It was an accident, his mind kept repeating, as he tried to get back to his feet. Milan's attempt at helping him were met with groaned protests and hard elbow shoves.

"Leave me alone, I can take care of myself," Carey shot, annoyed, when Milan just wouldn't give up. But he was forced to accept the assistance when it became clear there was no way he'd manage to get off the ice on his own.

Back in the dressing room, he swallowed his pride and refrained from complaining while Milan helped him out of his gear and back into his street clothes, although he hated every second of it. Carey did protest, though, when Milan forced him to relinquish his car keys, arguing that _he_ would drive them back home.

"I can still _drive_ ," Carey insisted. "My right leg is _fine_!"

"You're in _pain_ ," Milan replied, as he swung the passenger door open. "Sit. Now."

Carey grumbled, but ultimately climbed inside the truck, knowing this was yet another argument he would not win and that it was pointless to even try. Besides, he really was in pain, and having his hands free to be able to hold up an icepack against his leg wasn't that bad a thing right now, either. He muttered a warning for Milan not to slam his truck into incoming traffic or crash it anywhere else, but stubbornly kept quiet the entire way home.

However, when Milan insisted on helping him out of the truck and inside the house, and then suggested that he should seek medical attention, Carey literally exploded, scathing accusations pouring right out of him.

"Stop telling me what I'm supposed to do!" he spat, eyes shining with anger, disentangling himself from Milan's supporting hold. "Stop deciding everything for me! I'm not a child, and I'm not an invalid, I'll be _fine_. Just let me be!"

"I just think that maybe—"

"I _know_ what you think, dammit," Carey insisted, "You always think you know better than I do, you think you can run my life for me, and I'm sick of it!"

"I'm not trying to—"

"Stop! I don't want to know what you think anymore. I don't want to hear it, okay?"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry," Milan replied, hand held up in surrender. He moved in a little closer again, his intention likely just to help Carey get from the hall to the living room couch.

"I don't need your help!" Carey shot, shoving him hard against the wall. He pinned him there, restraining him with one arm across the chest, shouting, "You've _helped_ enough for today."

"Okay, I'm sorry, I won't," Milan promised in an appeasing tone. "But you should probab—"

"No!" Carey raged. "Shut up! I don't want to know! I'm sick of hearing you tell me what I should be doing. _Why don't you give hockey a try again, Carey? You should come and train with me in Vancouver, Carey. Oh, here's a place to stay if you need one, Carey._ Stop deciding for me, stop doing everything for me. I was happy before you came along, I was happy with what I had, and I had control over my own life. And then you come, and— fuck! You're not helping at all, you're not— goddamn you, you're just— you're ruining my life!"

Milan looked back with a wounded expression. "I'm sorry. I never meant that at all."

"Stop it," Carey begged, assertiveness wavering. "Stop it! I can't do this anymore. For just five fucking minutes, would you please, _please_ let me hate you?"

"I'm sorry," said Milan in a small voice.

"Shut up, dammit, shut up," Carey insisted in a defeated tone, "Stop being so damn nice all the time." He sighed, looking toward the ceiling. "It's just so _annoying_ , and I—" He sighed again. "I hate it," he said, bottom lip starting to quiver, the lack of conviction in his words betraying his thoughts. "I hate it, and I _hate_ you," he added weakly.

There was no mask to stop him now, and he leaned in, uncertain, breathing hard, heart pounding right out of his chest. "I hate you," Carey said in a whisper, hesitating one last second before hopelessly pressing their lips together in a kiss.

"I know," Milan told him, "I know," kissing back.

It was fierce and needy, as though they'd both been desperate for it, but knew it was all going to end at any moment now. Carey pulled his arm out from where it rested across Milan's chest—now an unwanted obstacle between them—no longer wanting to keep Milan away, but rather grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer instead.

From fisting his shirt, Carey's hands moved on down to Milan's belt, making quick work of the buckle. Milan's head dropped against the wall behind him and a deep, low moan escaped his lips. Carey nuzzled at the crook of his neck, then ran a path of hot, wet kisses up his neck, teeth scraping against short stubble under his chin, arousal building up sharply with every small gasp, every moan he drew from Milan.

Carey had one hand down the front of Milan's jeans before he even consciously realized what he was doing, fingers closing around a full, hard erection. Milan inhaled sharply, muffling curses, eyes rolled back in his head, stiff as a statue, as if moving would somehow break the enchantment. Slowly coming back to life, he ran his hands down Carey's back, circling around at the waist to unfasten his pants and return the favors, stroke for stroke.

The pace turned frenzy and kisses almost feverish, bringing them over the edge one after the other in an echo of loud grunts, and warm seed spilling over one another's hand and over the front of their clothes.

"Holy shit," Carey breathed, panting, eyes going wide. He shook his head sharply, trying to rid his mind of every last _what-have-you-done_ thought that had started to creep up, and trying to fool himself into believing that this hadn't been a mistake of epic proportions.

He wiped his hand unceremoniously against the side of his jeans, then hobbled toward the living room, wincing with every step, zipping his jeans up as he went. He dropped down on the couch, head propped up against an armrest, his left foot resting on the other, and remained there, eyes closed, breathing hard, face contorted in pain.

Carey barely looked when Milan pressed a bottle of prescription painkillers in the palm of his hand.

"Maybe you should take one," Milan told him. "There's water on the table."

"Yeah," was all that Carey said in response.

It had been almost a year since he'd stopped taking these things, half the time chasing them with beer for the extra effect, and though there wasn't a drop of alcohol within reach—or in the house at all, as far as he knew—he still worried what might happen if he took one now. But a few more minutes of his leg throbbing with enough pain he could barely endure anymore, he popped the cap off the pill bottle and dropped a couple in his mouth.

He set the small plastic bottle on the coffee table, tossing its cap next to it, then reached for the bottle of water, gulping almost half of it down. He moved to put the bottle back on the table again, knocking off the pill bottle as he did. Pink, oblong painkillers scattered across the slippery glass surface of the table, some of them ending up on the carpet. Carey sighed, telling himself he'd clean up later, and closed his eyes again, waiting for sleep to overcome him.

He woke up sometime later, a seemingly panicked Milan forcefully shaking him by the shoulders. "What?" Carey mumbled, confused.

"How many of the damn things did you take?" Milan just about shouted at him. "How many pills? Tell me!"

Carey frowned, trying to remember. "Two," he finally said, though barely intelligibly, holding up a hand and attempting to demonstrate with his fingers.

"Two? Are you sure? Only two?" Milan pressed on, in an urgent tone.

"Yeah, yeah, jus' two," Carey slurred.

"That better be right," said Milan, frowning at him, though he appeared a lot less anxious. "Because I swear, if you O.D. on me, I'm going to have you revived just so I can kill you myself."

Carey snorted weakly. "You don't hate me enough for that," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"Yeah, whatever," Milan said in what sounded like a chuckle. "Either way, you shouldn't stay here on the couch." He pulled on Carey's arm. "Come on, get up, you'll sleep better in your own bed."

With a small nod, Carey opened his eyes again, letting Milan help him to his feet and all the way down the hall to his bedroom. He didn't even bother protesting that he could get his own clothes off, and quietly accepted the help instead, falling into bed with a small, contented sigh.

"What ever am I going to do with you, huh?" said Milan in a quiet voice as he pulled the sheets up over Carey's body.

"Train," Carey replied sleepily, "Get better. Play hockey again."

"Yeah, we can do that," Milan said in a whisper, brushing a stand of hair away from Carey's forehead.

Carey smiled, drifting back to sleep. He was faintly aware that he wasn't alone when he woke up a few times during the night, but decided he didn't care enough to do anything about it, going right back to sleep again every time.

***

When Carey cracked an eye open and saw light streaming through the curtains, he stretched and yawned noisily, rolling over on the mattress. He was alone now and wondered if he'd dreamt the part where he hadn't been during the night.

A few moments later, Milan appeared in the door frame. "Feeling better?" he asked.

"I think so?" said Carey, frowning, trying to figure it out. He felt weak and somewhat hungover, and his leg still hurt, but nowhere near as badly as the previous day.

"Hungry?"

"Yeah, starving," Carey replied, pulling himself out of bed slowly.

"Don't get up," Milan told him. "I'll make you something."

Carey looked at him, an eyebrow raised in doubt. "I don't need to be mothered, you know. And I'm sure I don't need you waiting on me."

Milan let out a small sigh. "Look, this is just me trying to apologize for yesterday, okay? Besides, I'm hungry, and I'm making omelets, so just...relax for a bit, okay?"

"All right, fine," said Carey with a bit of a shrug.

Milan nodded and disappeared again.

"Hey, wait," Carey called after him, "Just how sorry are you exactly? Sorry enough for bacon, or is that expecting too much?"

An echo of laughter came from the kitchen, but no verbal response. Carey shrugged, then hobbled into the shower, relishing every single second of warm water cascading down his body.

Finally refreshed, feeling more like himself, although his head still felt like it was filled with cotton, Carey limped over to the kitchen, wearing a pair of khakis and a well-worn t-shirt that had clearly seen better days. Milan looked him over, an eyebrow raised.

"What?" Carey asked, looking down at himself. "You're not going to complain about my shirt again, are you?"

"No, but you were supposed to stay in bed."

"Okay, well, I needed a shower," Carey replied, frowning. "Besides, I _can_ walk."

"Barely," Milan muttered to himself, shaking his head. He reached for the plates on the counter and brought them around to the table, going right back for coffee.

Carey smiled when he saw three strips of bacon on his plate, but didn't comment on them, opting to say a quick " _thank you_ " instead before digging in. Several mouthfuls later, he looked up and asked, "So, when are we heading out to the rink?"

Milan stared back at him, an expression of disbelief on his face. "We're not," he said.

"What? Why not?"

"Because," Milan replied, then as Carey rolled his eyes at him, he went on, "Have you seen what time it is? Besides, you're hurt, and you can barely walk straight. You're supposed to train to get better, not overdo it and make yourself worse. You're not putting any skates on today if I have anything to say about it."

"Fine," said Carey in an acid tone. It was probably the right decision to rest, sure, but he still hated that Milan kept deciding everything for him all the time. All of a sudden, he remembered the conversation they'd had the day before, after practice. He coughed, choking a little on his eggs, then deciding he should probably get things straightened out about all of what had happened _after_ the conversation, he took a deep breath and hesitantly said, "So, uh, about yesterday? I know what it looked like, but—"

"It's okay."

Carey frowned a little. "It was just... you know... a mistake."

"I know," Milan replied, nodding.

Carey frowned some more, now bordering on baffled. "Right, so, um, can we call that a bad judgement call, forget about it and move on? It won't happen again."

Milan chuckled a little. "Ever again?" he asked with a crooked smile.

Carey just about dropped his fork at that, staring, mouth gaping, at Milan. This was not how he'd expected this conversation to go at all. This made absolutely no sense at all! And suddenly it occurred to him that no, maybe it did. "What do you think I'm talking about," he asked, almost certain that they were thinking about two completely different things now.

"The part where you gobbled up who knows how many of those pills and scared me half to death?" said Milan, now frowning as well.

"Oh." Carey took in a deep breath. He was going to have to start this conversation all over again. "Right, well, you realize I only took two of those, they just got knocked over when I set the water bottle back on the table. I meant, uh... before. You know? With the kissing and the—" he made an evocative left-to-right gesture with his fist "—that. That, um, that was a mistake."

"Right, yeah," Milan said after a moment of looking oddly perplexed. "Of course, yeah, that was a mistake. Yeah." He looked down to his plate almost immediately, never looking back up again, and ate in silence. He got up a little abruptly, saying he had "stuff" to do and was heading out for the rest of the day.

Carey nodded, though he was almost certain Milan never saw, and spent the remainder of the afternoon wondering how he'd managed to screw things right up again by giving Milan exactly what Carey was sure he'd wanted—a way out of this mess.

***

Late that evening, Carey heard loud banging noises coming from the hall. He stumbled out of bed to find Milan standing there with his shoulder against the wall, literally reeking of alcohol. When Milan pushed himself away from the wall and almost toppled over, Carey moved in to help support him.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Carey asked disapprovingly.

Milan laughed. "You," he said. "You're what's wrong with me."

Carey shook his head. "That makes no sense," he replied. "I sure hope you didn't drive in this condition," he added, "You're completely wasted."

"So what?" Milan replied. "I'm not the one with a drinking problem, you are."

"Oh, fuck you!" Carey spat back. He moved away. "You know, I was wrong yesterday, and I really _do_ hate you sometimes."

Milan snorted at that. "Well that's just _fine by me_ ," he replied, "because I hate you so much, you have no idea!"

"Is that so?"

"Oh yeah," said Milan scornfully. "I hate that I met you in a bar one night, because I really fucking hate that I couldn't get you out of my damn mind after that. And I hate that I'd gotten so damn used to you being around all the time that I was completely fucking miserable all alone this winter in Boston. I hate that you were gone before I even came back here for the summer and I didn't know if I'd even see you again. And I hate that when you did, you suddenly had meetings and friends and things to do, and none of that includes _me_ anymore. But you know what? Most of all? Most of all, I hate that you said last night was a mistake. Because it sure as hell wasn't a mistake to me!" He stormed off, ramming his shoulder into the nearest wall.

Carey stood there, mouth still gaping, blinking in incomprehension. "Wait," he called once his brain caught up with what was happening. "Milan, wait," he called again, quickly catching up to him. He grabbed him by the wrist, forcing him to turn around. "I said wait," Carey repeated again. "When I said that— this morning, when I said that, I was—" He shook his head. "I thought it was what you wanted to hear. I thought you wanted a way out, so I was offering you one."

"Why would you think I wanted that?" Milan asked, looking at him sadly. "Why would I ever want anything like that?"

"I don't know," Carey replied with a half shrug. "I misread you, I suppose? I guess I never really understood what you wanted."

"You," said Milan in a small voice, looking to the floor. "All I wanted was you." He sighed and looked up again. "When I met you that night in the bar, you looked so unhappy, I felt bad for you, and I thought maybe I could help, you know? I just wanted to see you happy." He shook his head sharply. "No, that's not it. I wanted to _make_ you happy. Only, I'm not sure I know how."

"Of course you do."

"No, I boss you around, and you said it yourself, you were happy before, and all I did was ruin it for you."

"I was angry," Carey insisted, "I didn't really mean that. You didn't ruin anything. How could you? You gave me back part of my life I never thought I'd ever have again. I can't even begin to imagine how to repay you for that, but believe me when I say I most certainly don't hate you."

Milan cracked a smile. "I don't really hate you, either."

"Yeah, I kind of figured."

"But I was so sure you were straight?"

Carey shrugged. "Appearances can be deceiving? Because I'm not nearly as straight as I apparently seem to be. I'm probably also not as smart as I look, because, well... Clearly."

"I guess that makes two of us," Milan told him, with a teasing smile. He swayed on his feet, coming to lean heavily against the wall. "This conversation is making my head spin."

"That's because you're drunk," Carey said in a sigh. He moved in a little closer, grabbed his arm and pulled him gently in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on, let's get some Gatorade in you, or you'll have a monster of a hangover in the morning."

"Couldn't be any worse than the one I had after we won the Cup," Milan chuckled, stumbling as he tried to keep up with Carey's pace.

Once they got to the kitchen, Carey pulled up a chair. "Sit," he said. Then he went around to the fridge and came back with a bottle of red-colored liquid. "Drink," he told Milan, offering him the bottle.

"Gee, you're bossy," Milan replied, looking amused.

"Yeah, I learned from the master," said Carey. "Now drink."

Milan took a sip from the bottle, immediately complaining that it was too sugary.

"Stop making a fuss and drink the damn thing," Carey told him.

So, Milan gulped down some more of the liquid, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before handing the half-empty bottle back to Carey who screwed the top back on.

"What?" Carey asked, frowning, seeing that Milan was staring back intently, looking halfway between awed and amused.

"You have nice eyes," Milan replied, a goofy smile on his lips. "I like your eyes."

Carey sighed, despite the smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, but you're really very drunk," he said.

"I'll still think so in the morning..."

"Oh, I have no doubt," said Carey in a bit of a chuckle. "Now come on, you're going to bed."

"Are you coming with me?"

"I, uh—" Carey started, uncertain. "If that's what you want?"

"Unless you don't?" Milan asked, his expression bordering on dejection, as he slowly got up to his feet again.

"No, I— I'd like that, actually."

"Yeah, me too," said Milan in a whisper, and he brushed a small kiss at the corner of Carey's mouth.

Carey smiled and said, "Let's go to bed, okay?"

As they lay in bed together a little while later, Milan cleared his throat and sounding strangely nervous, asked, "So, um, that thing, you know with the kissing and the—" he made a vague gesture in the dark, which Carey could easily imagine "—we're going to be doing that again then, aren't we?"

"When you're sober."

"I will be tomorrow," said Milan, self-assuredly.

Carey chuckled. "You'll be too hungover tomorrow."

"The day after, then?"

"We'll see..." Carey moved in a little closer, resting their foreheads together. "Goodnight," he whispered.

For the first time in a very long while, Carey had managed to get exactly what he wanted, but as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he wondered how long it would take before his life took a wrong turn again, and he was left empty-handed. Good things never lasted for him, and he worried that this wouldn't either.

***

A few days later, early in the morning, Carey was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, and wearing the Bruins shirt he'd figured was now probably safe to dig out of the bottom of his drawer.

"I wondered where that shirt had disappeared to," said Milan with a chuckle as he walked in.

Carey shrugged a little, then over his shoulder replied, "I meant to return it, I just never got around to it, I guess. Do you want it back?"

"Nah, keep it," Milan told him, coming in closer and brushing a kiss at the crook of Carey's neck. "Besides, I kind of like how it implies that you're mine."

"As long as it doesn't imply I'm a Bruins fan..."

Milan laughed as he wrapped an arm around Carey's mid-section possessively. "Oh please, you totally are!"

The first few notes of a cellphone ringtone resounded in the living room. Carey's head snapped in it's direction.

"Let it go to voicemail," Milan whispered to his ear. "You're busy right now."

"Can't," Carey said as he tried to untangle himself from Milan's hold. "That ringtone... it's my agent. I need to take this."

Milan let him go and Carey rushed off to answer his phone, walking off into the bedroom he wasn't really using anymore, but where he still kept most of his things.

He was still on the phone when he came back out a few minutes later. "Yeah, no, I'm sure about this," he told the person on the other end, walking back into the kitchen. "Tell them I appreciate the offer, though?" There was a pause, then a quick goodbye and he hung up.

Carey came into the living room where Milan was now sipping a cup of coffee, feet propped up on the coffee table. "So, I've been offered a tryout," Carey said, sitting down.

Milan frowned, clearly stunned. "And that's what you were saying 'no' to? Have you lost your mind?"

"Well, I had to refuse _one_ offer," Carey said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "I couldn't accept them _both_."

"Both?"

"Crazy, huh?" Carey replied, chuckling. "For some reason, _someone_ in the Bruins organization apparently thinks I might be a good fit with their team. I wonder why that would be. I wonder _who_ that might be." He laughed. "Less surprisingly, it seems the Habs are interested as well. Maybe they figure I owe them, which wouldn't be very far from the truth, I suppose."

"Ah." Milan nodded. "So I guess we're going to be mortal enemies after all, then, eh?"

"Enemies, why would—" Carey started, stopping abruptly as he suddenly understood. "Oh. No, no. The _Habs_ are who I said no to."

Milan eyed him suspiciously for a second. "Okay, well, either you're pulling my leg, or you're really out of your mind. I thought they were who you dreamt of playing for!"

"Well, yeah," said Carey with a shrug. "But that was the past, I guess. Besides, who knows, I might end up there anyway, if Boston doesn't work out."

"You mean you really picked _us_?" Milan asked, still wearing an expression of disbelief. "What happen to that whole ' _I'll never be a Bruin_ ' speech?"

Carey shrugged again. "You know, all things considered, a team is a team is a team, as long as I get to play, right? So what does it matter in the end what color their jersey is? And, you know, I wouldn't want you to be miserable all alone in Boston again this winter."

"You didn't really—"

"I'm just kidding," Carey insisted. "Mostly, anyway. No, I just figured Boston was less of a longshot, considering how many good prospects the Habs already have waiting in the wings. It just made more sense."

Worst case, Carey knew, he would at least have given it a shot, which was a lot more than he thought he would ever have in the first place. He smiled to himself, enjoying the fact that for once, he'd actually had been given an option about something in his life—time would tell if he'd made the right decision.

***

Carey sat in the dressing room, at the Bruins' training facility, slowly taking off his gear, trying to quell feelings of nostalgia as he looked around the place. It was the last day of training camp. He'd made it all the way through today, but he had no idea where he'd be when regular season would start, a few days from now. For all he knew, he'd be heading back home to B.C., and to his "old" life on the rodeo circuit.

Milan scooted in closer, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You did a great job out there."

"Coulda done better," said Carey with a sad little shrug.

"Or you could have done a lot worse," Milan replied. "Coach wants to see you."

"Oh." Carey sighed, nodding slowly, gravely.

Milan rolled his eyes. "Don't make that face," he said, then he leaned in a little closer, "It's not a bad thing, trust me."

"I guess we'll find out soon enough," said Carey as he got up to his feet and headed out of the room.

There was no one but Milan left in the dressing room, when Carey came back several minutes later. He walked over to him and sat down, then sighed heavily.

"Well?" said Milan, looking to him, now frowning as well. "I thought it was good news. It's not?"

Carey cracked a smile. "It is, I'm just messing with you," he said. "Well, they want to send me off to Providence for conditioning for a little while, though. Technically, I'm still on tryout."

"That's awesome," said Milan, patting him on the back. "We'll have signed you before you know it, you'll see."

"I might end up staying in Providence for a long time, though," Carey replied with a bit of a shrug.

"So? Providence is an hour away. You can come home anytime you like. Hell, you can commute."

"Home?"

"Well, yeah," said Milan, the corners of his mouth curling in a bashful smile. "Home."

Carey frowned lightly. "Is that your way of asking me to move in?"

"Didn't we do that last year already?" Milan replied in a chuckle.

"Last year?" Carey asked, eyeing him dubiously. "No, no, last year you tossed me your spare keys and told me to stay."

Milan reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. It was obviously his only one, since it had his car keys attached, but he tossed them to Carey nonetheless. "Here, then," he said, "Now you have these too."

"And you just assume I'm going to say yes?" Carey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I think we both know you always do," Milan replied, smirking.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Carey, tossing the keys back to him. "Meanwhile, you're going to need these if you expect to be able to drive your car."

"I'll give you the spares later," Milan assured him. He frowned almost immediately, adding, "I mean, unless you don't want them?"

"Of course I want them," said Carey with a grateful smile. "Where else would I want to stay?" Then he cocked his head to the side, frowning a little and asked, "So, how did you know what they were going to tell me anyway? Did you talk to them, what?"

Milan nodded. "Yeah, they asked about your work ethic and stuff..."

"What d'you tell them?"

"Told them you sucked," Milan replied, rolling his eyes a little.

"You don't _usually_ complain about that," said Carey laughing.

"Well, now that you _mention_ it."

Carey swatted his arm. "Oh, shut up!"

"Of course I didn't tell them you sucked, silly, I lied and told them you were great," said Milan with a teasing smile.

Carey looked at him for a long moment. "Thanks," he said finally, sounding a little more emotional than he would have liked, though he was definitely a little overwhelmed.

"Aw, you're not going to start crying one me, are you?"

"And give you blackmail material?" Carey asked in a small chuckle. "Never!"

Milan bumped his shoulder lightly, smiling. "You happy?"

Carey snorted. "Are you kidding? Happy doesn't even _begin_ to cover it."

"Good, I'm glad," said Milan. "Now come on, get your ass in the showers so we can get out of here. We should celebrate, or something."

"Celebrate?" Carey replied in a doubtful tone. "I'm still just on tryout. I haven't really achieved anything yet."

"Details, details..."

Carey eyed him a moment, en eyebrow raised. "Okay, what happened to the guy—the _slave driver_ —whose mantra, as I remember it, is 'you need to work harder, Price, come on, it's not over yet'?"

"Haven't seen him since we left Vancouver," said Milan in a chuckle. "Besides, I'm proud of you. Aren't you?"

"Of course I am," Carey said, as he started to strip out of the last pieces of equipment he still wore. "Not too bad for a cowboy, huh?"

Milan looked around. "Cowboy? Where? All I see is a hockey player. Pretty damn good one at that. Bit of an idiot at times, but I kind of like him anyway."

"I'm a hockey player again," Carey marvelled.

"You've been one all week," Milan replied, amused. "Hell, you _always_ were. You'd just forgotten it for a little while."

"Thanks for refreshing my memory."

Carey looked around the room, at jerseys hanging in empty stalls marked with players' names, their equipment neatly stored in little cubbyholes. He smiled, seeing his own name there above his stall, somewhere he'd lost hope of ever seeing it again, after the accident.

And sure, this wasn't the dressing room at the Bell Centre, and the logo on his jersey was a black 'B' instead of the red 'C' he used to dream about, but Carey didn't mind. As he looked down at Milan, looking back at him with a smile, Carey realized that what he had now, all things considered, was infinitely better than a handful of broken dreams.

Even if he stayed stuck in the AHL for the rest of his career and never saw ice time in an NHL game until he retired, what he had right now was more than a fair trade for the career he might have, had things turned out differently. And it was more than certainly worth trading his lasso for, too.

-End.


End file.
